The baby was shifting again. Despite the coolness of the steel toilet seat Elaine's upper lip was perspiring. She planted her feet on the floor and grabbed onto a bar to lift up her body. The cramps had been going since morning – intermittent – someone wringing out her intestines, and then suddenly stopping. She counted the days in her head, too early by almost a month. Should she call her doctor? Leave her post for a few minutes and use the public phones on the main road – Ursula could stand in for her and cash up. She checked, just enough coins in her pocket for the call. She washed her hands and ran her fingers over her forehead and cheeks.
‘Need you out here, Elaine,’ Ursula cracked open the locker room door. ‘Long queue. Bus just pulled in. Boss says if you’re not giving birth right this moment get back to your post.’
‘Coming,’ Elaine said but she stood studying her face in the mirror for a few seconds.
Vanguard Superette, owned by the Haddads, a Lebanese family, was situated off the R300 along a major taxi route. It stood opposite a petrol station where several minibus taxi drivers heading out of the Western Cape along the N2 stopped to fill up their tanks and the passengers walked across to the Superette to buy provisions for the road. At certain times of the day the Superette would crowd with urgent queues at the check-out counters. Bus drivers would hoot from the carpark, sending an injection of panic through the Superette.
The excited energy of people starting or ending a journey irritated Elaine – their often brusque manner at the check-out counter always falling short of what she considered appropriate etiquette. People are rude, was her grandmother's recurring lament. But maybe it wasn't that. Maybe she, Elaine, was jealous of the people because they were travelling. Where had she ever been – born in Worcester, raised in Salt River. The baby shifted again and she laid her hand on her belly, ‘Shoo.’
Outside the locker room, the glare of the fluorescent lights hurt her eyes. She could feel the hot stare of Bashir Haddad, the manager, on her neck as she sat back on her stool and started serving the customers that had gathered in her absence. She rang up the goods, not bothering to look into the people's faces. The cramping had eased, now it was just the mindless work.
She pulled the items across the counter. A roll of toilet paper. Two Maggie cubes. Tins of tomato puree.
‘Wait. How much so far?’
Elaine looked up at her; skinny with a pink checkered pinafore, the belt in a tight knot dangling on the side, she wore a dirty white scarf. She wasn't a traveller; Elaine recognised her from the township nearby.
‘Ten-forty-two,’ she replied and the woman slowly took her hand off the rest of the contents in the basket.
A whole chicken. As Elaine pushed it through, a small tear in the packaging widened and a pink trickle of chicken-juice trailed on the counter.
‘Ag!’ Elaine said as the blood dripped.
‘Sorry,’ the customer said.
‘It's not you. Look, use this, Ursh,’ she yanked a bag from the box and shoved it at Ursula who, standing inspecting her nails, glared in response.
‘Use a plastic first,’ Elaine added.
Ursula pulled a cellophane bag off the roll and eased the chicken into it. Then she placed it in the bright green grocery bag. Elaine continued ringing up the produce. Tinned corn – no name brand. The customer paid, taking a while as she counted out change from a plastic bank packet. She avoided looking at Elaine.
‘Thank you,’ she said, taking the bag from Ursula and walking out of the store.
‘Five kids. No husband,’ Ursula said, watching her go, then she went back to her nails.
At nine o'clock, the security guard shut the sliding doors and the last teller rang off.
In the locker room there was a line for the toilet, Elaine walked past to her assigned locker.
She pulled a grey sweater on over her uniform, didn't feel cold but outside she could hear the wind blowing – even the short walk to the bus-stop would be unbearable without warm clothing.
Elaine put on her blue coat, it was the warmest thing she owned and at one point it had been the brightest – a deep-sea blue the sight of which always made her feel happy. She loved the over-sized cuffs and the collar she could pull up and button to keep the cold off her neck. Over the years the blue felt had faded, it was still blue but dull and the fabric was worn. She'd mended the lining several times but every few weeks the flannel-backed lining loosened at the seams.
Elaine checked for Oscar's letter, finding it in the left pocket, folded tight and held with a rubber band.
She took a deep breath, inhaling the locker-room smell of shoe polish and corned beef. The strong odour pervaded everything including Elaine's coat which transferred the smell to her room when she hung it on the back of her bedroom door. At night she turned in her sleep and, catching the scent, frowned.
‘You in tomorrow?’ Ursula asked.
‘No.’
‘When's it coming?’
Ursula gestured and one of the new girls handed her a lighter. Her cigarette lit, she threw the lighter into her handbag. The new girl frowned but didn't protest.
Elaine watched the smoke rings form and disappear. In her time working at the store she'd never seen anyone obey the “No-smoking” sign on the wall.
Ursula's cheek bones sharpened when she puckered her lips to send rings in the air. Rumours circulated that she was coloured passing for white but Ursula wielded enough power to kill off the gossip.
Elaine hung her straw bag on her shoulder and held her bulging stomach.
‘It's a boy. One month still.’
‘I don't know how you cope. Met die pa in die tronk.’
Elaine winced, We'll be fine.’
‘I mean,’ Ursula continued, stubbing out the cigarette and sticking it behind her ear, ‘who's going to play rugby with the laatjie? I've seen you, you can't throw. It's a shame Elaine, man,’ and she sucked her teeth.
A woman sitting further down the bench crouched frozen over her laces, absorbing information for future gossip. Another lady washing her hands by the basin attempted to disguise her laughter.
‘But you know, my nana always warned me about African men, nê?’
Elaine walked out.
The coat pulled tight around her chest but it no longer covered her stomach. Over the five years she'd worn the coat one button had popped off after another. She'd always meant to replace them, but never did. Maybe this winter. As she walked a cold wind blew the smell of roasting boerewors under her nose. Her stomach chirped. She reached into her pocket to see how much change she had. Ag, forgot about the doctor. But there was nothing to call about now – the cramps had stopped. If they started again she'd call.
‘How much?’ she shouted at the trader as she studied her coins, leaning into the light from the lamp he'd strung up.
‘You big, lady!’
‘How much for the boerie?’ she repeated.
The trader moved and pointed at his sign behind him.
Elaine looked at the inflated price, said, ‘Forget it.’
She wasn't really hungry anyway. Although she'd heard pregnant women talk about a voracious appetite, during this last stage of her pregnancy she often felt as if she'd swallowed a football – already bloated before any meal.
By the time Elaine reached home the temperature had dropped, her toes were numb despite the heavy winter boots she was wearing. A light drizzle had started and the baby was shifting again. She'd always imagined that babies in their mothers’ wombs kicked but this one didn't, all he did was shift. It was different to kicking although she was sure of it she couldn't explain how. The only person she'd tried to explain it to was Oscar and he seemed to understand.
‘Sh, sh,’ she hushed as she laid a hand on her stomach and unhooked the rusted gate latch with her other hand.
Stepping to avoid upsetting the rodent traps her landlady had set on the paving, Elaine made her way to the front door. She could barely feel her fingers, they were so cold, and it took a while to fish the house keys from her bag. The door opened easily after she turned the key and placed her weight against its wooden frame. A week's dishes jostled in the sink, fighting with cockroaches for space. The landlady had left a note with instructions on the kitchen counter. Elaine took off her coat, she placed her hands on her lower back and stretched, looking up at patches of the ceiling board sagging with brown crumbling pieces where the rain had come through.
She calculated how much time all the cleaning would take. There was the floor to mop and the cat had vomited a brown mush onto the carpet. She'd try to get all the washing and ironing from last week done, aim for 1am and then sleep in a little. Her body was sore but it was a sensation to which she'd become accustomed.
Elaine tilted the blue bottle and as the milky liquid splashed into the bucket of water a clean hospital smell filled the bathroom. She dug the balding mop in and, pushing the bucket along with her bare feet, she let it stand in the corner by the door. She took in a breath, swam her hands with a cloth down to the bottom of the full tub and yanked the plug It burped and farted as the body of water began to drain. Every few minutes Elaine used the plunger to unblock the drain, pushing through caked dirt and chunks of hair. When the bath had emptied completely there was a timeline of parallel brownish streaks along the sides. Elaine scrubbed them off.
He was shifting again.
‘Sh, sh,’ she said and it came out hoarse and scratchy. A cockroach in the corner of the bathroom seemed to hear her and crawled away.
Elaine opened her eyes and closed them again. Already morning. Through the night the wooden bed-frame had creaked at the joints as she'd moved, shifting her weight in search of a comfortable position.
She'd struggled to fall asleep and was still awake at 3am when her landlady came in. The sound of high heels and heavier footsteps in the passageway. Elaine had drifted off and woke to a sharp ache in her stomach, the skin over her belly had felt as if it were stretching ready to burst. She'd gotten up to go to the toilet and heard grunts coming from her landlady's bedroom. She'd stepped over a pair of jeans and a hefty leather belt on the bathroom floor and perched on the toilet seat long enough to feel cold and wish she'd worn a sweater.
It was getting light outside, an early winter morning only the sound of tyres on the road and the low moan of traffic on the nearby highway told her it was probably past 6am.
Knowing she'd never get back to sleep, Elaine rolled out of the bed. On contact with the chilled floor she curled her toes and tiptoed to where she'd left her coat – the familiar bump of the folded letter in the crease of her jacket pocket.
My dear Elaine
It's so loud here, I can hardly think. Sometimes I can't feel myself. I mean I can't hear myself. I don't know if I'm making sense. The sound of this place is ugly and crude and grating. I can't sleep at night.
I'm fine though, don't get me wrong. Nobody bothers me. Instead one of the gangs is making use of me for information. Somehow they must have found out that I'm from the university, a learned man. They want information on their cases, they come to me with complaints, and they want ideas on how to decrease their sentences, the right words to use at their reviews. I don't dare tell them I'm not a lawyer and that I work in a chemistry lab. I can recite the periodic table backwards but my knowledge of the legal system is probably less impressive than theirs. I think on my feet though. They call me “The Professor”. The scar helps too. Did I ever tell you how I got the scar? Flying down Road 9 with my BMX. I remember tearing down the hill on a dare, realising the breaks were bust and zooming head first into the stop sign. I'm lucky to have survived that with just a keloid scar spoiling my good looks. Don't laugh!
Did you get the money I arranged? How are you doing? How's that Bom Boy in your stomach?
I dreamt he was born. You had him strapped to your back and you were humming. I couldn't see your face, you were doing something at the sink. I could hear water and glass bumping against glass. I put my hand on your shoulder and when you turned around I woke up.
I must show you how to do that by the way – tie him to your back. I spent most of my childhood on my mother's back. The other women used to smile but my mother said it was the most sensible thing she'd been taught since she arrived in Ife. That, and how to make cornrows. She let my hair grow long as a baby and then she plaited cornrows all along my scalp. Women wanted to carry me, saying her daughter was cute; they argued with my mother when she said I was a boy!
Please continue writing to me. I want to know how you’re doing. Send me a picture of yourself. And don't worry about me. I'm fine.
I'm sorry about all this.
I love you.
Oscar
Elaine read the letter through two more times, enjoying the soft feel of the paper between her fingers. She tore a piece of lined paper from an exam pad.
Dearest Oscar,
I don't know how I'll wait for two years to see you.
You know, with all that has happened that seems the worst.
I know I'm selfish to think of me. How are you? I loved your letter, your stories.
I'm fine, yes I got the money, thank you.
You can stop worrying about me, I can take care of myself.
Any more ideas for a name? I'm worried, I think he'll come early. I have an ache that keeps coming back more and more. Maybe it's normal I don't know. I'll call the doctor.
I miss you. I miss seeing your face – your frown when you’re working – and I miss our arguments. I even miss you telling me to sit down and rest.
Love,
Elaine
She always felt stupid writing to Oscar, as if she was whining. She read over her words and corrected some spelling. She pulled the last envelope from the pack she'd bought and wrote the now familiar words.
Oscar Ogunde
1992-48110-45663
Cell 25-v
Section C
Medium 2b
Joubert Prison
Meadows 7001
Cape Town
The shower was cold, the geyser needed fixing and her landlady had a stream of excuses for why it couldn't be done immediately. Shivering, Elaine got dressed. It took long, every now and then she had to stop, hold onto the edge of her bed, doubled-over, until the pain subsided.
Her room was bare, Oscar's desk was the only piece of furniture she owned. The built-in-cupboard housed her modest array of clothes. She put on a wide smock-frock she'd bought at a flea market; it was the one thing she felt comfortable in these days.
Oscar's desk had a flap that opened up like the desk she remembered from primary school. Inside she kept a copy of the Bible, Oscar's letters, a photograph of herself when she was five with her grandmother at the Grand Parade, and another photograph Oscar had taken of her just before his arrest. She took out the photograph remembering how she'd protested when he retrieved his hefty Canon camera from its case.
Remembering the day detail by detail she fingered the photograph, studying it.
‘Come on E, I want some pictures of you pregnant. Stay still. Drop your hands.’
Feeling caught, Elaine had leaned against the wall in Oscar's small apartment. She'd just gotten in from work and still had her coat on.
‘Relax. Talk to me, how was work?’
‘Fine,’ she'd blurted, ‘My feet are killing me.’
‘There,’ Oscar had lowered the camera and let it hang from his neck. ‘Painless.’
Relieved, she'd walked past his work desk sat in the unusually fat Victorian hallway, into the kitchen and flipped on the kettle. Instinctively her eyes went up to the electricity box. She laughed at herself. She'd moved in a few months already but couldn't get used to it: ample electricity; good water pressure; hot water in the taps. And then there was Oscar's habit of throwing two rand coins into a small cup by the front door – when had she ever had two rand coins to leave lying around in a cup?
‘What are you going to do with them?’ she'd asked.
‘I don't know. Just don't want them bulging up my wallet.’
The kettle clicked and Elaine pulled her favourite mug from the pile of wet dishes, adding a flush of cold water to cool down the rooibos. As she walked back into the hallway she saw Oscar, head down, scribbling. Fuzzy sunlight from the sandblasted glass of the front door lit up the space making his forehead shine.
‘What are you writing?’
‘Trying to get some work done. Can't stand just waiting around, doing nothing.’
Elaine rested her back against the wall, surrendering to the warmth from the mug moving through her fingers, the skin on her arms and all the way along her neck.
The trial was due to start in a week.
‘What a mess,’ Oscar sounded tired.
‘But you didn't do it. You’re innocent!’
‘Not the way the police see it.’
The police had arrived to find Oscar seated in the downstairs living room and four old people standing around him – three men and a woman.
The policemen entered the room and the woman had immediately started explaining what she'd seen.
The shorter of the two policemen had listened while his partner handcuffed Oscar.
‘Malcolm called to say he'd jump in the shower and then join me and the boys,’ she twirled her pearls as she spoke, slanting her head towards the three geriatrics standing beside her. We play poker today,’ her eyes were blank. We waited a bit then we started and then when he still didn't come I came through. Then I–’ here she stopped and one of the old men took her hand. ‘I saw this…I saw him standing over Malcolm. He was dead.’
‘How did you know he was dead Ma'am?’
‘He wasn't moving. He was still, frozen. His eyes were open but–’ she shook her head.
‘Would you be prepared to come down to the station and make a statement?’
She'd nodded.
Oscar was led through the house out towards the police car. He felt numb, had she been talking about him? Had she been describing something he'd done?
The policeman put his hand on Oscar's head as he ducked him into the backseat.
If he had actually done something then it had been a last act, a final form of defiance against the tyranny of a life-long curse. Maybe finally spilled blood would W1pe clean a stain that had haunted his life as well as his father's life. Oscar couldn't tell for sure yet if it actually would.
‘Do you think he planned it this way? Do you think Malcolm Feathers is laughing from the grave?’
‘He can't laugh anymore, E. He's dead.’
‘I'm worried Oscar.’
‘Look, the trial starts Monday. It'll blow over, I'm sure it will. It was just an accident.’
‘Doesn't look good though.’
‘Don't worry about it. Come.’
She stayed leaning against the wall and Oscar walked over and kissed her on the cheek.
‘What time Monday?’
‘Doesn't matter, I don't want you there anyway. At the trial. And also I want you to stop working.’
‘What?’
‘I have enough saved up.’
‘I don't need your money, Oscar.’
‘You’re carrying my son, Elaine. I want you to relax, let me take care of you. You’re on your feet all day tallying up groceries, come on.’
It wasn't the first time Oscar had pleaded with her. She'd interviewed for the Haddad's job behind his back after the news of the murder broke and the cleaning company fired her for what they called misconduct; engaging in private activity during working hours. Oscar had argued that she didn't need to work but she'd insisted.
‘I can manage. I've always managed without anyone's help,’ she bit her lip, why couldn't she just say thank you?
I'm just saying you’re with me now, E. You don't have to stress anymore. Let me help where I can.’
What about the legal bills?’
‘Let me worry about that.’
Elaine shook her head but said nothing. She went into the kitchen to wash her mug. She wished she could relax, he didn't mean anything by it, but when he spoke to her about money she could hear the children cackling in school when she came barefoot. Or on civvies day, she usually wore her school uniform and pretended she'd forgotten. Once, her mother made a short dress from an old bedspread. The laughter at her home-made dress was brazen but when she'd looked around no one made eye contact.
Leaving the kitchen she walked past Oscar towards the bedroom.
‘I'm going to have a nap,’ she said and closed the bedroom door behind her.
She couldn't get used to the family of blankets Oscar piled onto the queen sized bed.
‘I'm from Nigeria,’ he'd say, his standard statement meant to explain away most of her queries.
She was trying to remember all the names of the children in her class, particularly the ones who had tormented her the most, when she felt Oscar's warm fingers on the back of her neck. He spread his hands along her shoulders, over the strap of her nightgown and massaged her skin. The mean faces and harsh voices of Elaine's past disappeared. She lay still, her mouth softened.
Elaine put the photograph back down and looked at herself in the broken mirror on the cupboard door.
She touched her face, her fingers lingering over the scars along her jaw and neck. Mostly, she didn't notice them anymore, she'd learnt to skip them. But occasionally she looked, taking everything in, including the memory of the pain. Even though he was dead, Malcolm Feathers still frightened her. She didn't have nightmares and she seldom thought about him anymore but sometimes, when she turned her head to the side, she thought she smelled him, sometimes she thought she felt his skin on her body, his touch.
She blinked and then closed her eyes for a few seconds before turning her attention to her hair, short was easy to manage. Her mother had always pointed out that she'd inherited her good skin. Pale and freckled seemed to be, at least to her mother, an attractive option. From her face her eyes moved downwards, she cupped her breasts which had swollen in the last few months.
She'd never been able to answer the question for herself, whether she was beautiful or not. Even when Oscar complimented her she suspected he was lying. At five feet she was diminutive and often had to shop for clothes in the children's section.
Elaine looked again at the photograph then slipped it into the envelope.
It must have rained in the night but despite a restless sleep she had not heard it. Her stomach churned as she walked along the mam road towards the post office, careful to avoid the puddles from the storm. The light was grey, the sun's brightness tempered by the low slung clouds. The air smelled of rubber and dirt as well as the soft smell of fallen rain. At a corner on a skinny road off Main a short man was arranging a table of fruit. She bought an orange and, squeezing it, bit a hole in the top and sucked on it.
The steps into the post office were slippery and Elaine leaned on the railing for support. Inside she joined the queue.
‘Next,’ the woman behind the counter already looked tired.
There were only two functioning tellers, all the other windows had “closed” signs on them.
‘Good morning,’ Elaine said. ‘I'd like to buy stamps please.’
The postal worker had on thick glasses, she tapped the table top, indicating the slat in the glass partition and Elaine pushed her letter through, noticing the woman eyeing her belly.
‘Joubert Prison?’ A raised eyebrow.
‘Yes,’ subconsciously Elaine's neck stiffened and her nose rose up in the air. She imagined a murmur ripple through the small post office, through the line standing behind her. She paid the money. Collecting the stamps she turned and bumped into the woman behind her, standing up close.
‘Oops! Sorry about that,’ the woman bent to collect the letter that had fallen in the collision. ‘You okay?’
‘I'm fine, thank you.’
‘Wow, how far along are you?’
Elaine noticed the watery light blue eyes.
‘Just under a month to go,’ they traded smiles.
Someone in the queue cleared their throat and the woman went on to the counter.
Elaine stood at one of the closed counters and began licking the stamps. On visits to the post office her grandmother would let her lick the stamps, as a little girl she wondered why they put sugar on the back of stamps. To make the letter happier? To make it more special? Some stamps were sweeter than others, she got good at knowing which would taste like what. Much later her grandmother told her about a neighbour who collected stamps, she couldn't quite imagine it. She never got the image out of her head, of an old man keeping stamps in a box, taking them out every few months, to lick them and taste them.
As Elaine walked out of the post office something stabbed at her insides forcing her to stop and grab hold of the edge of the door. She heard a sound, and realised it was coming from her own mouth – a low wail as she exhaled.
A giant claw was yanking at what she had within her. She panicked realising she still had not made the call to her doctor. She felt as if her body was fighting her as the claw, with talons, started picking away at her intestines. Then nothing.
‘I'm fine,’ as she spoke a flow of liquid began slipping from between her legs. She looked down to see a clear puddle at her feet.
‘That's your waters breaking, lady,’ the postal worker had left her seat.
He's coming Elaine thought. Almost a month early, but he's coming.
‘Where's your husband?’ the postal worker asked as another contraction simmered.
When Elaine didn't respond she changed her question, ‘Which hospital are you at?’
‘Constantiaberg,’ it was an expensive private hospital. Oscar's colleague, Prof. Davis, had made the arrangements.
‘Anyone you can call?’
Elaine shook her head.
‘I'll take her,’ it was the woman who'd asked when the due date was.
Her long blonde hair was pulled back off her face which was flushed pink and she wrung her hands like drying a wet towel, her gold bangles jingling as she did so.
‘Who’re you?’
‘No one. But if she needs a ride I'll take her.’
‘Thank you. Yes, please I need a ride,’ said Elaine.
‘Well I guess it's better than putting you on a bus. Okay lady go get the car, I'll wait here,’ the postal worker stood by Elaine who was bent over, holding onto the edge of the counter and breathing deeply as another contraction engulfed her.
The disrupted queue remade itself and business continued as usual.
On the drive to Constantiaberg hospital Elaine felt as though she was asleep although she knew she wasn't. She felt in a trance. The woman spoke all the way through but Elaine only heard her in segments – a radio wave in and out of signal.
Six hours later, with a final intense burning sensation, in a sudden stream of slime and blood, he slipped out.
‘What is it?’ the midwife asked Elaine, holding the baby up to her.
‘A boy!’
The midwife laid him on her belly and he wriggled around, watching Elaine with an intense stare.
‘You’re here!’ she said. Then softer, ‘Hey you, you’re here.’
She'd carried him and understood the biology involved but his presence in the room seemed miraculous, not logical, her body went light, she caressed his back, his legs, his feet.
The lady from the post office touched her shoulder, Elaine looked up at her smiling and then back down at the baby in her arms. The nurse had cleaned him and swathed him in a white flannel blanket. A smaller towel covered his head and stringy curls escaped at his temples. His eyes were closed and his forehead crinkled so it looked as if the thirty-minutes-old baby was frowning. Elaine ran her fingers along the soft hairy skin on his face.
‘So tiny,’ she said, her arms were tired and her body ached. She kissed the wrinkled forehead, and held him to her bosom.
‘Thank you,’ Elaine said, looking up at the woman who'd driven her to hospital. She'd been there through the whole thing, holding her hand with the final push.
‘Next to you I did nothing.’
‘I don't even know your name.’
‘Jane.’
‘I don't know how to thank you, Jane.’
‘You pushed him out. You did it – surely that's thanks enough. He looks nothing like you by the way!’
Jane had been surprised to see a brown slippery body coming out of Elaine's white one.
Elaine smiled and kissed her baby.
‘He is beautiful,’ Jane said. ‘How’re you feeling?’
‘Sore. But happy.’
‘I need to be getting home. I left my number on the table. Don't think twice, just call me if you need anything,’ she reached across and squeezed Elaine's wrist.
‘Thank you,’ Elaine watched as Jane left the room. The kindness she showed was the cleanest Elaine had ever seen, next to Oscar's. There was no pity, only warmth.
Elaine waited for Oscar's call. He would call soon, she knew. And then she'd tell him.
‘Your son looks just like you.’
He was silent.
‘I wanted to be there.’
‘You were.’
‘How are you doing?’
‘I'm fine. We’re both fine.’
‘What's he doing now?’
‘Frowning,’ she laughed. ‘He looks like he knows so much.’
Later, in her dream, she was on a bus and her stomach was cramping. Everything was dark but she knew there were other people on the bus with her. Suddenly she got up and asked the driver to stop. Outside there was a tree with a wide trunk. She climbed and settled herself in the branches, she lay back and spread her legs. The surges of pain came and receded. She could hear drumming, the pain intensified and then stopped for good. Her legs spread wide, a small head, spindly feet and wet feathers inched out of her vagina. She looked down and it looked up towards her.
‘I knew it was you,’ the strange bird said to her.
As it spread its wings Elaine shielded her eyes from the fierce yellow light.
Elaine stayed in hospital one extra day with the baby. He'd caught jaundice and his eyes were bandaged while he was placed beneath a bright lamp that Elaine worried would scorch his skin. Oscar called again.
‘It's perfectly normal. I've heard of that happening, he'll be fine.’
Elaine told him her dream.
‘Hmmm.’
‘What? Is it good?’
‘He recognised you. He chose you, so he is where he belongs – no mistake has happened.’
Elaine nodded – she'd not thought about it that way.
‘But he flies away so maybe he'll leave us.’
‘Don't talk like that, Oscar.’
‘Come on, E. It's a good thing. Children are supposed to leave their parents. To have better lives. Easier lives.’
‘I just don't want any sadness around him. I want happy stories.’
‘Yes. My father used to tell me stories – not all of them were happy, but still they made me feel safe. And he used to sing to me.’
‘What do we call him?’ Elaine asked.
‘Well, should we base his name on the circumstance or base it on a hope – like a prayer?’
‘Hope.’
Oscar was silent.
‘Oscar?’
He sighed, then, ‘Look, I'm sorry it's happened like this, Elaine. I shouldn't have–’
‘Don't say it. This is how it has happened – this is our son, this has to be right.’
‘Okay.’
‘Now, what do we call him?’
‘I'm thinking of your dream of the bird.’
‘Yes?’
‘Lekeleke gbami leke–’
‘What's that?’
‘A song I learnt in primary school on the playing fields. Whenever we saw these white birds – must have been doves or swans – flying across the sky we'd stop whatever we were doing – even if someone was about to score a goal – and wave at them.’
‘What does it mean?’
‘Lekeleke gba m leke
Eye adaba gba mi leke
White swan, help me
Dove, help me.’
‘Help you with what?’
‘Good luck. We'd wave and then we'd look at our fingernails for white flecks that weren't there before we waved – if we found flecks it meant the birds in flight had answered us.’
Elaine smiled. ‘It's cute.’
‘Leke.’
‘Leke,’ Elaine said then frowned. ‘Is that right? I can't mispronounce my own son's name.’
‘Leke. Lay-kay.’
‘Lay-kay So, does it mean “bird”?’
‘No, that's just the song! The full name is Ifaleke. Ifa – the creator – is the victor.’
Elaine drifted into a half-sleep, her mind aware of her new baby next to her, his soft breathing. She felt weighed down by an invisible mass; her stomach ached and in between her legs was a throbbing sensation as though blood was gushing but her clothes were dry. The nurse woke her up to feed the baby and he fell asleep at her breast. The nurse must have come back and cleaned and burped him because when she woke up again it was dark outside and Leke had been laid in the crib, sleeping.
She thought she heard Oscar's voice in her sleep, imagined he'd been released and was standing beside her singing to Leke. She wanted to ask him something but sleep held her back.
Something startled her and she awoke with a fright. For a second, with the morning light sneaking through the blinds, she didn't know where she was. The hospital TV was on mute but she could hear voices coming from the passageway, the squeak of wheels rolling on the floor. She thought of Oscar far away in a prison cell. Leke was still in the white crib beside her bed, an arm's length away. Elaine put her hand to her chest. She exhaled audibly, just as a nurse entered the room.
‘Everything okay, Elaine?’
‘Yes,’ she had to pat her chest to keep from crying, Yes, everything is fine.’
‘I'm writing to him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Letters.’
‘He's just a baby, Oscar!’
‘I know, I know. When will he be able to read? Not just ABC, when will he be able to really understand things?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘They’re for him to read.’
‘Yes, and you can wait and tell them to him, face to face.’
‘It's too long. He'll need something in the meantime.’
‘I'll bring him to see you.’
‘No. I don't want that. He'll be two by the time I get visiting rights. I don't want him here. This is no place for a baby. It's filthy here, Elaine! And the smell… don't bring him here. Ever.’
‘But–’
‘I don't care. Don't come to visit with him. Please.’
‘Maak vinnig man!’ Another prisoner waiting for the phone moved up closer behind Oscar so he could smell his sweat.
‘A boy needs his father, Oscar,’ Elaine whispered, looking to the couch where she'd lain down Leke.
She'd started work again, but she didn't know how to tell Oscar the money from Prof. Davis was gone, spent.
‘Please, Elaine,’ Oscar continued. ‘It'll be better that way. I can't let him see me like this. I can't let him remember this.’
‘He won't. He'll be too young.’
‘Doesn't matter. This is not the place for him. I'll be out, you'll see, the time will pass quickly.’
Oscar's lie polluted the phone call. Elaine held the receiver between her ear and her shoulder, reaching her hand to stroke Leke's furrowed brow. The call went silent.